"You're probably right,"
Paris
conceded. "Still, it's going to be awkward seeing him again like this."
Awkward and exciting.
"Thirteen-fifty."
Paris
looked at Rachel and then at the cabdriver, who was holding out his hand for the fare. She hadn't noticed when they'd pulled up in front of the pub.
Rachel got to her purse first. "Here."
They slipped out of the cab, and crossed the sidewalk to O'Malley's Pub. A brass placard announced the establishment's hours from four in the afternoon until two in the morning.
"Maybe they're in there doing prep work," Rachel suggested.
Paris
nodded, then grabbed the heavy door and pulled. Unlocked, it opened easily. "Here goes nothing," she said, stepping inside with Rachel at her heels.
With three hours left until the bar officially opened, the dim lamplight of the other night had been abandoned in favor of strong, institutional fluorescents. The stale smell of old beer and cigars assaulted Paris, seeming much more pungent than it had during the pub's regular hours, when the odors of alcohol and tobacco had been tempered with music, sweat and fried foods.
The only person in the bar was a lanky fellow squatting on the floor. Earnestly rubbing at a stain on the hardwood planks, he hadn't yet noticed Paris and Rachel. The expression on his face suggested that he'd be happier if the lights were dimmed again, so that the spot he was working so hard to remove would just blend into the shadows.
Paris
coughed lightly. The lanky fellow shifted his weight, still concentrating on the stain.
"We ain't open 'til four," he said, without looking up.
"I know. I need to see the owner."
The fellow grunted, as if being interrupted from his chore was the most disruptive thing that had happened to him in ages. He looked up, and
Paris
saw his eyes widen as he turned from her to Rachel, and then back to
Paris
.
His mouth hung open as he stared at her.
Paris
checked to make sure all her buttons and zippers were fastened. They were.
Have I turned green?
She opened her mouth to speak, just as the fellow scrambled to stand up. "Oh, it's you. I didn't know. Sorry. What can I get you? Really, anything. It's on the house."
Paris
looked at Rachel, who managed to twitch her shoulder and cock one eyebrow in a gesture that left no doubt that she, too, was clueless.
"I'll take a margarita on the rocks," Rachel announced after only a second's hesitation.
Or maybe not so clueless.
"Rachel," snarled
Paris
, as the fellow loped toward the bar.
"What?" Rachel asked, the picture of innocence. "He asked, and it's rude to turn down your host's invitation."
"Two seconds ago he was kicking us out. Now we're the guests of honor?"
Paris
lowered her voice, even though it wasn't necessary. The fellow had started the blender, and its grating noise in the empty bar was sufficient to mask their conversation.
Rachel smirked. "From the way he's been looking at you, I'd say you're the guest of honor. I'm just along for the tequila."
Paris
was spared having to think of a snappy retort by the sudden silence in the bar.
"Here you go. One margarita." The fellow held up the glass, then set it on the bar.
"It's like a carrot," Rachel mumbled. "He puts it over there, and I'm drawn to it." She headed across the room to the bar.
Paris
rolled her eyes and followed.
Their de facto host nodded toward Rachel as he looked at
Paris
. "So, who's she? Your lawyer?"
Odd question.
"We did go to law school together, but—"
"Aw, geez, I knew it. I freakin' knew it. I shoulda kept my big mouth shut. He's gonna be up to his armpits in lawyers and cops, and it's all cuz o' me."
Questions ricocheted in
Paris
mind. Who's going to be in trouble with the lawyers? What did the police have to do with anything? What did
she
have to do with anything? Was the lanky fellow's "he" her Mystery Man? She had a feeling she could place a bet on that one, and have pretty good odds of winning. One question came to land on her tongue. "Who are you?"
Suddenly all smiles, the fellow slid around the bar to shake her hand. "Jerry. Jerry Mangolini. Wow. What an honor. Meetin' you, I mean. I've read your books. Every one of 'em."
Paris
heard Rachel gasp, and considered asking for a sip of the margarita. She was beginning to think she was going to need it. Then again, this was a situation best approached with caution. And a clear head.
"Um, what books are those?"
Jerry nudged her with his shoulder as if they were old friends. "Don't worry. I won't tell. Ironic, ain't it? Me keepin' your secret even though Devin was gonna spill the beans unless, well, you know." He rubbed his thumb and fingers together, the international symbol for money.
Devin.
"Devin was—" She couldn't finish the thought.
"—going to blackmail
Paris
?"
Good ol' Rachel. Always ready to pitch in during a crisis.
"That's why you two are here, right?"
"N—"
"Yes. Of course." Rachel interrupted before
Paris
could deny having any inkling that the fabulously suave mystery man of her dreams was actually a wolf in Montgomery Alexander clothing.
Overall, the situation stunk.
Jerry nodded. "I'm surprised you found him, him not telling you who he is and all. Guess you musta recognized him from the other day, huh."
"The day when you two figured out my secret identity?"
Jerry cocked a finger at her. "Yeah. You're getting it. A beautiful scheme, really. Worthy of the kind of gigs Devin's pop used to pull." He paused, frowning. "But you might as well lose the lawyer. He didn't go through with it. He told me. Left without getting the money and everything."
"That makes it right?"
Paris
asked the strange little man.
"Right, not right. Don't really matter. The important thing's that no DA's gonna care about a blackmail scheme wherein no one got blackmailed."
Paris
had to agree with the fellow. Even if she were inclined to prosecute, no district attorney would care.
"Besides," continued Jerry, "he had his reasons. Good reasons. Twenty thousand of 'em."
"What?" Rachel asked.
"Gambling debt," Jerry announced. "His—"
"Hello,
Paris
."
Paris
spun around, and there he was—Alexander, Devin, whatever the heck he called himself. Gone was the deep brown hair from the night before. Now damp golden waves framed his face, as if he'd just showered away the remnants of Alexander. But the change didn't reduce his sex appeal at all.
Her first impulse was not to accuse him of trying to rip her off. Not to yell at him for leaving her in a lurch. Not to scream at him for using her. Not to slap him for playing Russian roulette with her heart.
No, her traitorous heart wanted to kiss him, touch him, be near him.
And that was what really made her angry.
* * *
The look on her face put a quick end to Devin's fantasy that they were going to ride off into the sunset together. Damn, but she looked sexy when she was ticked off.
"Gambling debt," she whispered. "You were going to blackmail me so that you could pay off a gambling debt?"
Her voice rose from a low tremor to a high shrill. Devin cringed. This was definitely not happily ever after.
So much for her rushing over to confess true love, or at least serious lust. How did that saying go? Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.
"
Paris
, it wasn't like that." He hoped a soothing voice would keep her from crossing the line into hysterics.
"Wasn't it? What was it like? Some innocent, starstruck fan just wanting to get close to me?" She stomped her foot, and glanced over the bar. Fortunately, the ashtrays were in the dishwasher. Had one been handy, no doubt she'd have hurled it.
She snorted. "Can you believe I fell for that one? I actually thought you were interested in me. Bet you and your buddies'll have a million laughs over that one."
Devin wished he could wake up and start the day over. All morning he'd been on the phone, begging for more time to pay back his dad's debt. Two lousy extra weeks they'd granted him. Twenty thousand dollars in four weeks. An impossible task.
And now he was being confronted by a woman he'd left naked in a hotel room after impersonating her pen name and dream lover. A woman he craved so much his insides ached, but had no idea how to go about getting. Especially considering that she was standing in front of him, spitting mad, looking for all the world like she believed he was the lowest of the low.
All in all, it was shaping into one hell of an afternoon.
"Well," she persisted, looking particularly cute the way she glared at him with her hands perched on her hips. "Aren't you going to throw some new line my way?"
The urge to laugh almost overwhelmed him. Here he'd taken the chivalrous path, leaving her room before he could actually go through with the scam that would solve all of his financial problems, and to what end? The object of his fascination, the only woman he'd ever desired so tangibly, was standing in his pub, yelling at him, and thinking that he was a no-good, lousy, two-bit con artist.
Well, aren't you?
"
Paris
, you don't understand—" He stopped himself. The trouble was that she
did
understand. He was his father's son. He was his neighborhood. He was his upbringing. Everything she was accusing him of. Everything he'd been running from his entire life.
You can run, but you can't hide.
"Don't I? You seem to have mistaken me for one of the characters in my novels. The girls who like to mix it up with the bad guys."
Devin took a breath and came to a decision.
Damn his father, damn the mob and damn himself. He was better than that. She needed to know he was better than that.
"I didn't go through with it. I walked away without going through with it."
Her eyes widened, and she took a tiny step backward. Devin didn't know what she'd expected him to say, but obviously not that. He watched her face as she regrouped.
"So?"
He almost chuckled in relief. That was hardly the fighting response he'd expected. Still, there was an edge to her voice. He wasn't out of the woods yet.
"I didn't blackmail you."
"But you intended to. All those questions about who knows the truth. That wasn't flirting. It wasn't getting-to-know-you talk. You just wanted to use me, and all that talk was nothing but digging and planning to cover your weasely little tracks." She crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her head, her gaze fixed on his eyes. "Well?"
Devin looked at Jerry, then Rachel. Both were entranced, their expressions no help to him. A lie had sucked him into this mess. He'd gamble and try the truth. He noticed the irony and held back a grin.
"Yes," he said simply.
"But you didn't go through with it."
"No."
"Why not?"
Devin paused. Moment of truth time.
"Devin, why?"
Paris
pressed.
His breath caught in his throat as she spoke his name for the first time. For some idiotic reason, the fact that she'd used his name made him believe they could work everything out. It was a romantic, foolish, sappy notion, but he intended to hold on tight to it anyway.
He nodded toward Jerry, who took the hint. Rachel stayed firmly planted until
Paris
mouthed the word "go." Then she stood regally and crossed the room, apparently becoming transfixed by the jukebox.
"Why?"
Paris
repeated, her voice soft. The same voice that had begged him to kiss her. God, this was killing him.
"Because it was you. I couldn't do that. Not to you." He wanted to tell her more, to explain that he'd fallen for her. Hard. But in her mind, she'd just now been introduced to Devin O'Malley. He needed to move slowly and not risk scaring her away.
Her brow furrowed, and her hand went automatically to a strand of hair. When a smile played at the corner of her mouth, he exhaled in relief, only then realizing he'd neglected breathing. It was going to be okay. They would make amends and get to know each other as Devin and Paris. Not Paris and Alexander.
But then she tilted her head and studied the floor. When she looked back up at him, the smile was gone. Her eyes were still warm, but her face was composed. A poker dealer, maybe. Or a lawyer. But not his lover.